


This Should Be Fine

by spicyarnor



Series: The Prince And His Bodyguard [8]
Category: Trails in the Sky, Trails of Cold Steel, 英雄伝説 閃の軌跡 | The Legend of Heroes: Sen no kiseki (Video Games), 英雄伝説VI 空の軌跡 | The Legend of Heroes: Sora no Kiseki (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Kurt Vander exists but there are no real CS3 spoilers, M/M, Mueller is very frustrated with his feelings, Sky 3rd spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 23:51:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12353106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyarnor/pseuds/spicyarnor
Summary: In Phantasma, Mueller overhears something that he really wishes he hadn't, and it's eating him alive.Takes place briefly during, and mostly directly after Sky 3rd, and alludes to some major spoilers for that game.





	This Should Be Fine

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic takes place before/after The Answer and I strongly, strongly recommend you read that before reading this if you haven't already. It's short!
> 
> Since I'm writing this series out of order I need to mention that Mueller and Neithardt are FWBs in this little canon. I mention it later in the fic, but just want to put it here so it doesn't surprise anyone.

Mueller Vander walks alone down the darkened empty streets of Grancel. The place is eerie and uncomfortable, lit by streetlights and inhabited only by the occasional phantom monster, but he has been trailing Prince Olivert since he left the Hermit's Garden alone without even telling him. What was he thinking, going into the endless dungeon of Phantasma all by himself? The lecture that man is going to get once he makes sure he is safe...

Turning a street corner, Mueller comes face to face with a large manor with one of its lights on. This must be it, he thinks, walking down the hedged entranceway and opening the front door. He steps into a dark room, barely lit only by a faint light coming from the end of an upstairs hallway.

"Mmm," a feminine voice drifts down from upstairs, laced with pleasure and urgency. Mueller freezes in his tracks. "Yes, yes, just like that--"

"Oh, Scherazard," the prince's voice follows, strained with exertion. "You are just so beautiful, so positively alluring, I simply can't hold back any longer--"

What follows can only be the sounds of skin hitting skin, and soft vocalizations of pleasure.

Mueller's heart begins pounding, his stomach turns, and he backs out of the room and onto the empty street. He turns away from the house and bolts, running down the dark road, cutting through alleyways until he reaches the city gates and collapses onto a park bench, bent forward with his hands tightly squeezing his knees to keep himself together.

 _Not_ alone. The prince is _not_ alone.

"Why the hell do I even bother," he finds himself growling aloud to no one. "It's not the first time he's pulled something like this..." It isn't, but it's the first time he's ever heard anywhere near this much of it, and he has this sick, sinking feeling, and his arms are shaking.

He knew _something_ had at one point gone on between him and Scherazard, but... Closing his eyes, mental images he does not want to see begin flashing through his head... Both of them, naked, Schera's arms around Olivier's back as he...

Suddenly seething with anger, he clenches his fists so hard his nails dig into his palms. _This should be fine,_ he tells himself, _this is just what he does. I know that. He could find far worse diversions than that bracer._

He does not feel fine.

* * *

He still does not feel fine, days later.

They have finally left Phantasma, only to now find themselves in a field a short distance from Heimdallr, face to face with a rhinocider.

Olivert had asked Schera to marry him, hadn't he? Even staring at this monster, the thought would not leave his head. That was the only logical explanation for what had happened right before they left. But now was not the time to ask this question --

"Olivier, take cover!" He shouts, jumping in front of the prince and blocking the monster's sudden charge with his blade. He can hear Olivert scrambling away behind him. Mueller curses under the weight of the attack, pushing against the monster with all of his strength -- if he could just get it to stop charging for a moment, he could end it in an instant --

A gunshot rings through the air, the well-aimed bullet striking the rhinocider between two of its armored plates. It cries out, an awful, bestial sound, and Mueller jumps back, then rushes down at it with a powerful, lightning-charged swing, slicing the monster right between the eyes.

It goes still just like that. The battle is over already.

"Thanks for the backup," Mueller says, nodding to the prince. "That was one hell of a welcome back to the real world."

Olivert laughs, holstering his orbal gun. "Indeed," he agrees, then his eyes shift to the right. Mueller follows his gaze towards the vast skyline of Heimdallr. "I don't know about you, but after all of that, I could certainly use a day of rest in some place familiar."

Mueller frowns. "We have work to do." He can nearly hear the prince deflate. He tries not to ask, but he finds it coming out anyway. "...And besides, what the hell was that back there with Scherazard?"

Olivert stares at him, then smiles deviously. "Oh? Are you concerned you may have a rival in love now?"

Aidios above, he does not need to deal with this man and his horrible jokes right now. He shuts his eyes, pursing his lips. "Need I remind you I carry an extremely heavy sword?"

"Haha, that will be unnecessary," the prince replies, sighing dejectedly. "Alas, it is but a fleeting dream that may never come true."

That doesn't answer his question at all, only serving to make his suspicions worse. She hadn't said yes, at the very least, and even Olivier himself doubted she ever would. He felt something akin to relief at this realization... but, why? This was not anything he should feel relief over. Or anything at _all_ over. It wasn't his business who the prince felt affection for --

"You know what," Mueller grumbles, barely holding back his frustration, "I could use that day off in Heimdallr."

* * *

The trip back to the city goes without further incident. Once within city limits, they take a cab to Dreichels Plaza and are welcomed in by the royal guards and find their way up to the prince's quarters - which consist of not just his private bedroom (Mueller does his best to stay out of there unless absolutely necessary), but an entire complex of rooms in one part of the castle. Mueller stands in the sitting room as Olivert hangs up his jacket and collapses backwards onto a red velvet fainting couch.

"Home, sweet home," Olivert sighs contentedly, then looks up at Mueller, who is still standing near the doorway. "My love, what are you doing? Please, relax." His face shows mild concern and his voice takes a soothing tone.

'My love'? Mueller thinks bitterly, closing his eyes and frowning. Does the prince even know what he's saying? 

"Disregarding your first question since I am clearly not your love," he deflects as calmly as possible, but it still comes out more frustrated than he'd like, "I assumed that when you said we would take the day to relax, we would be doing so separately."

The prince looks crestfallen for a moment, but Mueller isn't looking. Then he sighs, a theatrical despondent sound. "You wound me, Mueller. But, if my companionship is unwanted, then far be it from me to add to your tension after that whole ordeal. Go, take the day off."

He feels bad now, just a little. Another confusing layer to add to the thinly covered turmoil inside. "Thank you," he says, actually grateful and hoping it shows a little bit, then turns to leave, stopping in the doorway. "Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone."

"I think I've had enough trouble for the next little while," Olivert assures him, and he sounds like he means it. "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. The palace guards will make sure I don't die. They really need something to do, anyway."

He snorts at this. "You sure how to put my mind at ease, Olivier," he says, shaking his head and letting the door shut behind him.

* * *

Mueller considers going home to his family residence, but he's so tired that he holes himself up in his assigned room in the palace. It's a spartan room as far as palace furnishings go, which is how he likes it - no fancy paintings, no chandeliers, just beautiful yet functional carved furniture, inlaid tile flooring and a large oak bed with a thick purple duvet. Most importantly now, though, the room is real and private. There's a large window on one side of the room that overlooks Dreichels Plaza, but he draws the curtains when he gets in, then strips off all his clothes and heads for the shower in the small attached bathroom.

The hot rushing water hits his skin and it's a relief, his too-tense muscles relaxing. But his mind is still a mess. The memory is a little less vivid than a few days ago but it still keeps replaying - what is _wrong_ with him? It's not his business what Prince Olivert does with his love life, only that he doesn't let it interfere with his duties as a prince. And in the end, the prince and Scherazard had gone their separate ways - what was there for him to be so angry about?

But he is angry, terribly so. Whatever tension the running water had begun to wash away was now replaced by a sick feeling of anger coming back in full force now that he is alone for the first time in days.

He thinks to himself that it feels like a betrayal - but, why? They aren't _dating_ , heaven forbid. And it's not like the prince's dumb childhood crush on him were really still lasting - that incident was ten years ago now, and he got over it. He's slept with plenty of people since then, Mueller knows this for certain. Sure, Olivert is constantly flirting with him, but he's constantly flirting with _everyone_ , that's just how the man shows any kind of affection. They are childhood friends who work together closely on a daily basis. They care about each other. It's nothing out of the ordinary beyond the prince's particular quirks.

No, there is nothing between them to betray, even if Mueller has to fight down a part of himself that wants there to be. Olivert is the prince. Olivert never takes any relationship seriously. Anything between them would be a recipe for disaster. This stupid snowballing attraction he has found himself wrestling with has been misguided and doomed from the start, Mueller knows it. He has to put it out of his mind and hope it settles. He has to find a distraction.

He turns up the hot water, letting the heat soak into his skin, then lathers up a washcloth with soap and scrubs his body hard and thoroughly, starting from his neck and moving down. Some of the tension starts to dissipate, but still his thoughts wander, and he begins wondering what the prince is up to without him. Is he spending some time with Alfin and Cedric? Is he having a drink, perhaps, alone? 

" _Shit_ ," he groans, too much emotion in the simple curse, then shuts his eyes and leans his face up into the stream of water. _I have it bad. I need to get out of my head. What the hell would Neithardt say if he saw me like this --_

Neithardt. Now that's an idea. 

Neithardt could _definitely_ help him get out of his head. It had been a few weeks since he had seen his old friend, but he was stationed in the capital for a while longer, right? He'd visited him in his Heimdallr apartment once before, it wasn't even too far from here.

Neithardt, like himself, is a very busy person with a very stressful life, so he knows it's possible the man is working even on a Sunday - but if not, surely he wouldn't be opposed to working out some of that stress with him. They have been casually sleeping together as a matter of mutual convenience starting back in the days when they served in the same battalion, meeting up regularly over the years since. In that time, both of them have gotten pretty good at getting each other's minds off of their respective problems. It's all purely physical, no feelings beyond their close friendship between them at all. This is exactly what Mueller needs, he thinks. If anything can break him out of this rut, it's this.

Thinking about having sex is definitely distracting, and Mueller latches onto the thought for dear life. He shampoos and rinses his hair quickly, turns off the water and dries himself off as fast as he can. 

He throws on a fresh change of clothing - just another, cleaner copy of his uniform, but at this point Mueller's uniform is like a second skin. 

Once he's dressed he walks over to his desk and picks up the orbal phone, punching in Neithardt's number, listening to the dial tone with anxious anticipation. He really, really hopes he is home.

The other end of the line picks up, but Mueller is speaking before they can say anything.

"Neithardt," he says quickly, "are you free right now?"

"Actually, yes," comes Neithardt's voice through the receiver, and it's probably the single best thing he's heard all day, save for the whole Phantasma issue being finally dealt with. "What is it, Mueller?"

"Can we meet up? Please? I --" he has a hissing intake of breath, as he realizes he has been forgetting to breathe. He lowers his voice, so that his old friend will know exactly what he means. "I need to see you. Badly."

Neithardt in all his blessed mercy doesn't stop to question, or even miss a beat. "When?"

"Right now," he says. His fingers tighten around the receiver without him realizing it. "Or as soon as you can."

"Meet me at my apartment in twenty minutes," Neithardt replies, then hangs up.

Mueller puts down the receiver and leaves the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. Aidios, he _needs_ this.

* * *

Neithardt answers his door out of uniform, dressed in his arguably more formal noble clothing. He looks good, like perhaps he's had a relaxing weekend and hasn't spent the last indeterminable stretch of time trapped in some kind of deadly mind labyrinth. His blonde hair is impeccably spiked up, his posture is perfect, and Mueller has never found the man more attractive outside of the bedroom than he does right now.

"You look like a wreck," Neithardt frowns, looking him over. Mueller is very clean and his uniform fits properly, but he is visibly stressed, at least to Neithardt's sharp eyes.

"I've had one hell of a week, Neithardt," Mueller explains, in what is probably the understatement of the century. His eyes wander over the man, taking in the details of his outfit. Everything fits perfectly, every seam lays flat. Neithardt is always so together, so formal, so the complete opposite of what he's trying not to think about, and it's exactly what he needs right now.

"I believe you," the blonde nods, stepping aside to let him in. He shuts the door behind them and Mueller turns around and pushes him back against the door by his shoulders, touching his neck and kissing him hard. Neithardt falters for a moment, surprised, then returns the kiss, opening his mouth slightly. Mueller rewards him with a nip to his lower lip, running a hand over his chest, then deepens the kiss, bringing his tongue into Neithardt's mouth. Neithardt doesn't give in, and their tongues dance around each other in a bit of a battle until Mueller overpowers him, groaning into the kiss and gripping Neithardt's shoulder tightly. Finally, he breaks a moment for air.

"...Okay, now I really believe you," Neithardt says, a little out of breath, watching Mueller look down at him, panting, eyes dark and face flushed.

"Sorry," Mueller mumbles, stepping back. His head is spinning and he's so charged he finds it hard to think. "I'm just... I really _need_ \--"

"There's no need to apologize," Neithardt assures him, unfastening his cloak and hanging it on the nearby coat rack. "I have the evening off. You have my full attention."

He walks up to Mueller, green eyes glinting as he smirks ever so slightly, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Still... you really want me _that_ badly, hmm?"

Mueller flushes, and he frowns at him, much to his amusement. "Yeah," he admits, looking down as he says it.

The blonde tightens his grip on Mueller's shoulder, and he looks up to face him. The hint of playfulness is gone now and he looks very serious as he breaks eye contact and says, "It's been too long."

Neither of them are sure who started it first this time but soon they're kissing hard, running their hands along each other's bodies, grabbing each other roughly, unfastening their clothing between kisses. Neithardt's mouth tastes like black tea, bitter and seductive, and his muscular body is such a familiar comfort underneath his hands. His tongue against his is so enticing, both of them having long learned exactly how to kiss each other to get the best reaction, and as Neithardt opens his eyes and sucks on his tongue for a moment Mueller feels dizzy with lust, almost giving in, somehow managing to undo the man's belt, then fumbling with the buttons on his vest.

Neithardt gets Mueller's jacket unzipped first, and he grabs the now open collar of his button-up undershirt with both hands, dragging him backwards into his bedroom. There's a four-poster bed carved from fine hardwood, a beautiful rug covering most of the floor, some art on the walls, some general nice things - Mueller is not at all focused on the room just now, only Neithardt, who releases him once he reaches the edge of the bed, pulling off his now unfastened jacket and dropping it to the ground. Mueller throws his away too.

He crashes his mouth against Neithardt's, nipping at his lips, running his hands firmly down against his neck and into the collar of his shirt. The heat of his skin is so _good_ \- desperate to touch everything, he mentally curses all their stupid clothing for getting in the way.

Neithardt reads the mood well and begins undressing himself quickly, pulling off his top and getting started on his trousers as well. Mueller catches up quickly, and soon the two of them are completely naked, looking each other over.

The blonde is very well-built, less bulky than Mueller but still exceptionally muscular, as the ace of the 4th Armored Division ought to be. While Mueller has wide shoulders and a narrow waist, Neithardt has less of a taper to his build. He has dirty blonde hair on his chest and legs, and slightly darker hairs around his already nearly full erection. He is a very attractive man in a very conventional way, and he stares at Mueller like he's noticing something different about him.

"You've been doing some extra training, I see," he decides, eyes lingering on his body. "Looks like I'll need to catch up."

Mueller smirks. Phantasma had certainly kept him on his toes, at least. "Perhaps," he says, then grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him back onto the bed, pinning Neithardt down with his head against his pillow.

He leaves biting, hungry kisses on Neithardt's lips, and as the length of his body rubs up against his, the blonde's hands grabbing at his back, his quick pulse and breathing matching his own, he groans into his mouth -- he's so fucking horny it nearly hurts, and the nearly full contact of their skin makes him suddenly hyperaware of this. He sucks and bites down his neck and chest desperately, running his hands over the familiar contours of his torso, then curls a hand around Neithardt's cock, pumping it up and down. The blonde makes a rough sound of pleasure at this, cursing under his breath.

"Neithardt, I need to fuck you," Mueller says bluntly, voice nearly shaking - he touches himself with his left hand only to wince at how goddamn hard he is, letting go for fear of not being able to bury himself deep inside this man. He _needs_ this, he needs it he needs it --

"Second drawer," Neithardt says quickly, pointing to the nightstand, touching himself as Mueller lets go of him to climb off the bed and grab what they'll need. 

He unwraps a condom and rolls it down himself, then takes another and pinches the tip, then rolls it down Neithardt's length with his mouth.

"Damn... Mueller, what's gotten into you," Neithardt half-asks, half-groans, then gasps as Mueller sucks up his length, squeezing his thighs and swirling his tongue around the head before releasing him and grabbing the bottle of lube.

"I just really... need this," he says, squirting lube into his hand and coating his sizable length with it. 

"Me too, but damn," Neithardt rises onto his knees, grabs the lube and turns around, bending over facing the headboard and looking back at Mueller.

 _Aidios, Neithardt has a nice ass,_ Mueller finds himself thinking definitely not for the first time as he stares at his muscular backside and thighs, then watches absolutely captivated as he begins preparing himself on his knees with slick fingers, everything in full view. Neithardt is not shy about this kind of thing - at least not with him, not anymore - and he bites his lip, looking at Mueller's lap hungrily as he fingers himself open. Still, somehow, even doing this there is still an air of dignity to the man, like this is some sort of proper noble bonding activity. In Mueller's current state, watching him do this is near torture.

"Fuck," he blurts out.

"I'm almost ready," Neithardt informs him, groaning as he adds a third finger.

Mueller can't just sit here and watch any longer, and he starts grabbing at the blonde's ass, then kissing and biting up one of his thighs. Neithardt's legs shake a little at this, and he pants and shudders, then pulls his fingers out, wiping them with a wet wipe from the packet Mueller brought over, then tossing the wipe in the bedside garbage.

Mueller positions himself, grabbing the blonde's hip and rubbing himself up and down against him for just a moment before pausing against his entrance. "I'm going to put it in now," he says. 

"Please," Neithardt urges, and it takes no time at all for Mueller to oblige.

The wet heat and pressure around him is everything he wants it to be, and they both gasp as he pushes in maybe a couple of inches before pulling out, and pushing in a little more. It's so hard to hold himself back but Mueller steadies himself, pressing his stomach and chest against Neithardt's back, kissing at the back of his neck as he slowly works his way inside him, just a bit more each time.

"Mueller," Neithardt groans as Mueller pulls out then enters him nearly all the way now. "Yes, more--" 

That's all it takes for Mueller to give up what little self control that is still remaining and push all the way in. He burns with pleasure and still more, more need, then starts sliding back and forth deep inside him. Neithardt grinds his ass up against him, deeper and deeper at the end of each mutual thrust, and despite how amazing it feels, suddenly Mueller feels completely overwhelmed, unexpected emotions rising up out of place and taking hold.

He looks down at Neithardt, strong and muscular and looking forward as they fuck each other, then closes his eyes and sees Olivier beneath him for a split second, long hair a mess over his shoulders, looking back at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Hurt and frustration and pain bubble up through the heat of physical pleasure, and he snaps his eyes open in alarm, looking very clearly at Neithardt underneath him, trying to dispell the vision.

He doesn't know what to do with how he feels, now maybe more than ever, but he's still so fucking hard and Neithardt is taking all of him eagerly, so he does what he knows how to -- he picks up speed, lying on top of the blonde's back and pressing his chest into the mattress, biting and kissing at his neck and shoulders with a possessive, near animalistic passion. He can't stop thinking about the prince now even though he is practically on the verge of tears, and in a moment of both pleasure and broken weakness he lets his eyes shut and briefly gives in to the image of the prince underneath him, disheveled and overwhelmed with pleasure and taking everything that Mueller has to give. It's wrong for him to do this, he knows it, but he's not in control of himself anymore and Neithardt is still moving with him, still making low sounds of pleasure -- but they're so different from the soft, distant sounds he heard Olivier make that they break him out of his awful fantasy in mere moments, and he's still so _frustrated_.

 _"Oh,"_ Neithardt moans as Mueller pulls out all the way, then pushes back inside in a practiced motion, just at the right angle to make his legs shake beneath him. His hips slap against his ass and he just keeps repeating this, over and over, until finally even the anger and the sick feeling in his stomach are drowned out by pleasure and Neithardt softly cursing.

"Keep going, I'm almost there," the blonde says, and Mueller does, reaching around to jerk him off as he pounds in faster and faster, blood rushing in his ears, hips shaking as he thrusts. Neithardt groans loudly at this, drawing in hissing breaths as he rapidly gets closer.

"Me too," Mueller says, some sort of complicated emotion in his voice that doesn't quite sound like him, then he buries his face in Neithardt's shoulder and comes hard, everything momentarily forgotten in an overwhelming wave of relief. Neithardt follows soon after, and Mueller pulls out and falls over onto the large mattress, spread out on his back, closing his eyes and breathing hard.

Neithardt turns over onto his back too, and they are both silent for a few moments before he speaks.

"Mueller," Neithardt pants, "What the hell was that about?"

In the wake of his orgasm everything seems so much clearer to Mueller. Of _course_ Neithardt would notice something was off; he's a fucking mess. He feels guilty about it, but he can't let him know why.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes sincerely, but fudges the rest. "It's nothing in particular. I just had a very frustrating week."

"There's no way," Neithardt insists, sitting up and pulling off his condom, tying it in a knot and throwing it in the bedside trash. Mueller follows suit. "You've never been quite like _that_ before. Something happened. What was it?"

"Really. It's nothing, like I said. Just a lot of stress, and the prince doing something stupid again." He grabs a couple wipes, hands Neithardt one, and starts cleaning himself off. Neithardt does the same, then throws the wipe away.

"I'm not an idiot, Mueller. That can't be it."

Mueller sighs and throws his wipe in the trash. "It is." Neithardt is decidedly not convinced, and Mueller goes against his better judgement and takes a breath in before continuing. "I just caught him messing around with this bracer we know instead of sticking to the mission and it just set me off, okay?"

 

 

Neithardt pauses. Just seeing the prince - the _Debaucherous_ Prince, who certainly did this kind of thing all the time, especially judging from all of Mueller's stories - in the middle of something had caused him to get like... this? It didn't make any sense. None at all. Except, a nagging feeling told him, unless...

"Aidios, Mueller. You almost sound like you're _jealous_."

The brunette freezes for a split second, his expression one of surprise and pained frustration, then rolls his eyes, turning around to pick his discarded uniform off the ground. "Don't be ridiculous," he counters, finding his underwear and pulling them on.

Neithardt is silent for a moment, just sitting there naked on the edge of the bed as Mueller gets dressed, facing away from him. That reaction was certainly not normal. Did he really have feelings for the prince? Years of frustrated conversations started to click into place, to develop more meaning. It... made sense. Too much sense.

"...You _are_ jealous, aren't you?" It comes out more like a statement than a question, and Mueller stops halfway through pulling his arm through a sleeve. He says nothing. It's nearly the same as a yes. Neithardt struggles to find words to say. 

"That isn't good, you know," the blonde warns.

Mueller sighs, putting the uniform sleeve on the rest of the way and letting his arms fall to his sides. "...Yeah. I know."

Neithardt just considers all of this for a few moments. It's a lot to take in. Mueller has feelings for the prince. Not just _a_ prince, but _that_ prince. It's... impossible, not to mention far beyond his station. Those are feelings that should never be acted upon, he thinks, and surely Mueller knows this full well. But it is his duty to protect this man for the rest of his life. It... well, he imagines it has to be incredibly painful.

"I'm sorry," he says finally, expression grim.

 

 

"Me too," Mueller exhales, pressing his palm to his face, unable to hide the edge of pain in his voice.

He came here to escape his problems, not spill them out to Neithardt like some lovesick schoolgirl in a torrid romance novel. But keeping everything bottled up for so long has been so hard, and even though he doesn't think the man will really understand or deserves to hear this right now, he is one of his closest friends, and he has no one else to confide in.

"I've tried so hard not to be," he continues, still standing and looking away, his voice rough at the edges. "It's completely stupid, I know."

Neithardt takes a moment to reply. "It's not stupid. Foolish, maybe, but not stupid."

Mueller falters, turning around to face him, looking at him with brows furrowed. "What exactly do you mean?"

"It's not stupid to have feelings, Mueller. All you can really control is how you act on them. But you can't let yourself blow up like this."

"…Yeah." There is truth to what he's saying, and it makes Mueller feel marginally less terrible about his feelings for the prince, but much worse about what he's done tonight with Neithardt. "I'm sorry, Neithardt. I didn't think I'd... I didn't mean to involve you in this like that."

The blonde shrugs his shoulders, closing his eyes. "It wasn't okay, but... I'll be fine. But if we're going to do this again, you need to keep these problems out of it."

Mueller nods, visibly showing his guilt. "You're right. I won't let this happen again."

Neithardt stands, crossing the distance to Mueller and clapping a hand on his shoulder. Mueller raises his head to look at him in surprise.

"Take care of yourself, Mueller. It might be kind of sickening hearing this from me, but you're one of the strongest men I know. You can get through this."

Mueller snorts. It does sound kind of awful, but he is honestly touched. "What am I, your student?" He rolls his eyes, then lets out a breath. "Thanks, though. Really."

* * *

Mueller decides to take the rest of the day to actually try and relax. He takes in the real world, appreciating the air and the sky and the countless people on city streets that were so sorely missing from the false reality of Phantasma. He sits on a bench in Mater Park and reads a newspaper. He gets an afternoon snack from a street vendor. Afterwards, he goes home for a time to the Vander family mansion and spends some time playing chess with his brother before eating dinner there. Seeing his family again and getting some hits in on some training dummies in their private training hall makes him feel a bit more like himself again. He is a Vander, and he is determined to live up to his name in the best way he can.

When he returns to his quarters in the palace, the lock clicking shut behind him, he slumps backwards against the door and lets out a long breath. It's been the longest of days, and he is so tired. He strips down to his underclothes and goes straight to bed.

Tomorrow is back to work again; back to giving his all to ensure that the impulsive prince manages to keep himself on track and prevent Erebonia from heading down the Chancellor's chosen path towards chaos and war.

He wants to let the jealousy go, but he can't. Not entirely. And now that he is finally beginning to admit his feelings to himself, nor can he shake the new painful realization sinking in that he really loves Olivier, much more strongly than is appropriate. Neithardt is right. He can't seem to change his feelings, no matter how inconvenient they are. At least not quickly.

Regardless, he still needs to do his job.

* * *

He still doesn't feel fine the next day, but after breakfast, he walks into the prince's study anyway.

Olivert is seated at his desk, looking over paperwork, backlit by the soft morning sun streaming through the enormous floor-to-ceiling paned window and balcony door behind him. His face is drawn tighter than usual in concentration as he quickly pens something on a form.

He looks up at Mueller, and seems almost as pleasantly surprised to see him there as Mueller is to see him working.

"Good morning, Mueller," he says with a smile, setting his pen down and quickly brushing a hand through his hair to push his bangs out of his face. "I hope you had a good day off."

Mueller feels some of the tension he had when he walked in the door melt away. "I did," he decides. "Kurt nearly beat me at chess yesterday. He's getting better. I need to keep up my practice."

"Ah, the adaptability of youth," Olivert sighed approvingly. "They grow up so quickly, don't they?"

"They really do," Mueller agrees, glancing at the neat spread of papers on the desk, then back at the prince. "What's gotten you working so early?"

The prince smiles widely, as if that was what he was waiting for Mueller to ask all along. "Why my dear Mueller," he says, and Mueller's chest stirs in an unfamiliar way, "I'm doing it all for love."


End file.
